Camille Beaufort & the Color Curse
by SirTaylor'sTallTales
Summary: Please, view the header at the top of chapter 1-- it is the summary. Opinions wanted. 1st FanFic. A mature, writing-oriented audience is desired. ***OC & DRACO MALFOY*** MALE/MALE Romance. WiP.
1. Happy Christmas

_SUMMARY_**: A boy's entire family is wiped out by an old enemy. His memories are erased and he lives on, cursed. Forced into a new environment, without family and friends, he must survive the remainder of his fifth year, alone, while death looms closer than he knows.  
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_DEBRIEF:_ **This is the story of my unique character thrust into the Harry Potter storyline during the middle of the fifth year (he is the same age as the main characters). Eventually the main storyline of the Harry Potter series will alter, but not greatly, because of my character, due to the influence he will have on Draco Malfoy**; **basically, Draco will eventually become good instead of being torn between both good and evil.**

_Author's Note:_ **This is only the first novel**-**length story I plan to write; there will be sequels continuing to at least the end of seventh year. **

**WARNING: Contains homosexually explicit, but not limited to, content. If gay isn't your thing, kindly move on or widen your horizons and have a good read, the choice is yours.**

****CURRENT WiP**  
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* * *

Happy Christmas

Claudine Villefranc was a quiet woman by common standing. She kept to herself and expected the same of others. Her silvered hair was ever in a tight bun upon her squat head, her knickers were always pressed, her shoes were always polished, and not a spot of makeup was ever seen on her wrinkled face. She did not like people. She never married. Once upon a time she dated a man for a number of years, but, as rumor would have it, when he had supposedly suggested moving in together, she left him without word or reason. She did not keep in touch with her two sisters nor their brood or her many cousins. No, she did not like people; she preferred her three tabby cats in lieu of people. The quiet company of Monsieur Blanc, Mademoiselle Rouge, and Madame Rose suited Claudine Villefranc just fine.

The single-story square house on the corner of Belle Rue had belonged to Ms. Villefranc for as long as any residents of the lane's cul-de-sac could remember. To them, it had always been there with its red brick walls choked by vines, dull violet door and matching shutters, both of which were said to be painted to be deceivingly inviting. Over the years, many newcomer neighbors had shown up on her doorstep after falling victim to her effortless portrayal of a sweet old widow that spent her days reading with her cats. Each time she gleefully spat their half-finished introductions back into their faces with a fine howdy-do, but only after snatching their house-warming gifts. After awhile, the few other permanent residents of Belle Rue took it upon themselves to sternly warn any new neighbors away from Ms. Villefranc's humbly deceiving cottage.

Since then, her schemes had been put to rest and Ms. Villefranc was rarely seen from then on. Though, people have caught glimpses of her on her bi-weekly trips to the local market or when she took her evening strolls about their quaint neighborhood. For them, it was like sighting Big Foot or Nessie. As she was a fit older woman, people guessed that these walks were the key to her good health. On the night of Christmas day, 1996, Claudine Villefranc allowed the world to see her on one such occasion—her very own little Christmas gift to all. Bundled in her self-knitted winter garb, she bid her slumbering cats behave, and, closing the door without a sound, Ms. Villefranc stepped out into the falling snow.

As she reached the sidewalk at the end of her driveway, the house in the center of the Belle Rue cul-de-sac captured her gaze, like it did the year before this one and the year before that. Its white-washed canvas was splattered with reds and greens, twined with tinsel and speckled with holly, and adorned with fresh wreathes of pine, bow-tied with red ribbon. Alive with silhouettes that bustled to-and-fro behind drawn curtains, the pillared manor of the Beaufort family was a shining beacon of Christmas spirit and holiday cheer. Ms. Villefranc despised the Beaufort Christmas and their bedazzled home, which did little to bring cheer to her shriveled holiday spirit. Every year, Christmas brought the entire Beaufort clan to clutter her street with their whatcha-ma-sports cars and their whose-it-what's-its SUVs. Sixteen years ago today, Christmas at the Beaufort home became a family-wide tradition to celebrate Christmas and the birth of Gregoire and Corinne Beaufort's only child. Claudine Villefranc chewed her tongue vigorously at the thought.

Ms. Villefranc did not like Christmas; it reminded her of the family she chose not to acknowledge. Since 1980, her dislike of Christmas because of the Beauforts grew steadily as the years dragged on. To the audience of snowflakes that whirled about her she whispered misfortune on the Beauforts. Lost in her mutterings, Ms. Villefranc noticed, a moment too late, the silhouette that had appeared behind the cerulean, satin curtains of the manor's great bay window that faced the street. The old woman sucked in her breath through clenched teeth as the curtains were thrown wide, casting a pool of light onto the lane.

Despite the distance, it was painfully obvious that the woman at the window was undeniably beautiful. Wavy tresses of dark amber fell just short of her full breasts and her snowy silk dress contrasted wonderfully against her sun-kissed skin. The silver-clasped black leather belt that rested just below where her bellybutton would be hugged the dress to her elegant form.

The woman in the window waved.

With a dignified huff, and a toss of her scarf over her shoulder, Ms. Villefranc shuffled into the night, her chin pointed high in the air.

* * *

"Mon cher, why must you persist to bozzer ze old oiseau wis your kindness, hmm?" Said Gregoire Beaufort to his wife, whom scowled in response, as he came beside her and placed a hand on her hip while the other tucked an auburn strand behind a pink-fleshed ear. "She only wishes ze peace and quiet zat we do not give 'er."

As the man finished his now-apparent joke, Corrine Beaufort's cheeks bubbled with contained laughter until she no longer could contain it, and then turned away from the window to kiss the man she loved.

"Especially—zis—time—of—year," Mr. Beaufort blurted between the kisses the woman planted on his lips.

Ceasing her onslaught of kisses, Mrs. Beaufort slid her arms across her tall husband's broad back and rested her head against his strong chest and sighed, "Perhaps you are right, m'amour," she remarked as they swayed gently in place, "Zo, it is a shame she always chooses to spend ze holidays alone."

Lifting her chin between thumb and index finger, Mr. Beaufort looked into his wife's eyes, still as lustrous and as deep a blue as they were twenty years before, "Then we shall invite her over for ze holidays next year!" the man declared with a smile, "And not just for Christmas, but all ze holidays; we will turn zat batty oiseau into a happy peacock in no time, mon cher, you have my word."

Mrs. Beaufort grinned and squeezed her husband tight and kissed him once more. Mr. Beaufort returned the embrace two fold, picking her up as he leaned back, eliciting a surprised giggle from the woman.

Setting her down, he held Mrs. Beaufort at arm's length and said, "Now, enough wiz zis nonsense, hmm? Come, it is almost time for ze cutting of ze cake," he said as he led her away from the window, "And we should do it before I have to 'cut ze cheese,' eh?"

The woman let out a fit of laughter at the lewd joke and playfully slapped her husband on the shoulder as they made their way into the kitchen from the foyer. Mr. Beaufort went to the refrigerator as Mrs. Beaufort reached into a few drawers and brought out paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware, all holiday themed, and set them in stacks on the counter-top. Pulled from a solitary shelf in the refrigerator, came a magnificent cake of crafted of sinewy, white pastry cream. Its surface was elaborately decorated with sugar cream fleur-de-lis of blue, green, and white, edible dove miniatures on each corner, each in their own unique, life-like pose. In the center of its surface were gold and silver cream letters that spelled out,

**Bon Anniversaire , Camille !**

After receiving a nod from her husband, Corrine slipped out a thin wooden rod that had been tucked into her belt and held its tip to her throat, "Everybody," she spoke; her voice filled the manor effortlessly. "It is zat time again!" Lowering her wand, Corrine waved it the stacks of ware and utensils before replacing it in her belt and facing Mr. Beaufort, who still held the cake out in front of him.

"I cannot believe he is sixteen, Gregoire," she spoke as tears rimmed her eyes, "He is growing too fast!" The plates, napkins, and plastic ware danced on the air in single file into the dining room where they set themselves neatly into place along the extensive table that seated fourteen. Mrs. Beaufort crossed her arms, leaned back against the counter, lowering her head.

"Ah, m'amour, dry your eyes and quiet your fears, for he is not so old as of yet, eh? He is not yet so old to spread his wings and fly for himself," the man spoke softly as he approached his wife and turned sideways to kiss her cheek. "We are still ze wind zat keeps him soaring, no?" Mr. Beaufort asked, barely a whisper, as his eyes searched to capture her gaze.

When she lifted her eyes to meet his, she smiled, sniffed, and patted the tears with a sleeve before nodding. "I am foolish," she chuckled, "What would I do wis out you, m'amour?"

Mr. Beaufort grinned knowingly, "Mon cher, not even I know ze answer to zat question." He leaned in once more to kiss her fully on the lips, "I only know for certain zat I will always love you, Corrine," he said, inches from her face.

The woman kissed him and smiled wide, "Moi aussi, m'amour, you always know just what to say; always ze charmer."

Mr. Beaufort chuckled and shrugged and wrapped his arms around his wife.

The sound of footsteps began to echo throughout the manor as the rest of the Beauforts realized it was time for cake. The antique chandelier above the dining table quivered as four pairs of feet bounded down two flights of stairs from the nursery above. Creaks from the cherry paneled floors of the lounge forewarned the arrival of the grandparents. The approach of laughter and merriment from the billiard room announced the coming of Mr. Beaufort's two younger brothers and their wives. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort walked the short distance into dining room, where Mr. Beaufort centered the caked on the table and then awaited their family's arrival.

"Zoot alors!" Mrs. Beaufort gasped after a moment, "Ze candles! We forgot ze birzday candles!" In a flash, she drew her wand and aimed it toward the kitchen, "_Accio_ candles!" The sound of drawers and cabinets flinging open filled the kitchen. A swarm of candles of all shapes and sizes rounded the kitchen wall and flew at their summoner whom then spoke, "_Immobulus_," suspending them in mid-air before her. Mrs. Beaufort plucked the sixteen similar candles she desired then waved her wand, causing the remaining candles to float back into their respective containers.

"Well done, mon cher!" Mr. Beaufort congratulated as Mrs. Beaufort set the candles around the letters on the cake, which she finished not a moment too soon as the Beauforts filed into the dining room, each as delighted as the last.

First into the dining room were Mr. Beaufort's parents, Gregoire Beaufort senior and his wife Adeline, followed by Mrs. Beaufort's parents, Edmond and Françoise Hallett. Behind them came Mr. Beaufort's brothers Henri, with his wife, Julien, and Maximilien, with his wife of one year, Nathalie. Squeezing between their parents and aunt and uncle, came the three children of Henri and Julien: Avril, Nadia, and Maxence, of ages fourteen, eleven, and nine. After the extended family took their place on the other side of the dining table, as was tradition, the light of the chandelier bulbs dimmed with a whisper from Mrs. Beaufort and the candles upon the cake lit with another.

Taking his cue to enter, Camille Beaufort entered the room. His eyes, so much like his mother's, twinkled with the dance of the candle flames and his bright smile reflected their soft light. For the occasion, Camille took his place beside his mother and father as he always did. Their proud smiles and glassy eyes welcomed his approach. His parents both placed a hand on the shoulder nearest them as he took his place, as they always did. With a hard kiss atop his head from his mother and a wink from his father, Camille knew this birthday would be one to remember.

When all was as it should be, Mr. Beaufort began the song, "Un, deux, trois!" Everyone chimed in, "_Bon An_—," a loud knock at the front door interrupted the song.

"Ah, Sacré Bleu! Who could zat be at zis hour?" Mrs. Beaufort swore as she left the dining room, her stride full of the wrath only mothers were capable of evoking.

She turned the knob and yanked the door forcefully open and, upon seeing who stood on her doorstep, choked on the prepared insult that pressed against her teeth. Mrs. Beaufort dared not move, not even to scrunch her nose at the pervasive stench that brought tears to her eyes.

A pale, emaciated woman, dressed in no more than dirty rags that waved in the wind, held a charred wand to Mrs. Beaufort's gut. The woman's hair, what was left of it, was no more than a collection of oily, unwashed ringlets that hung from her scalp, like miniatures of the rags wrapped about her skeletal figure. The reek of human defecation and natural pheromones clung to her as surely as her rags.

"Happy Christmas," the woman wheezed, her thin, cracked lips curled smugly, "Sister."

A flash of ochre filled the foyer; its light flirted with that of the dining room.

"Corrine?" Mr. Beaufort called sternly, fishing his wand from a deep pocket of his tan trousers as he took a few steps toward the foyer. Camille watched his father approach the hall that led to the foyer from the dining room. The rest of the family kept as still as the chairs in front of them, their eyes following Mr. Beaufort as they waited for Mrs. Beaufort to respond. Mr. Beaufort reached the mouth of the hall and took a step back as if slapped; his face contorted into a mix of disbelief, fear, and rage.

"No! _Stupefy_!" Mr. Beaufort shouted and thrust his wand in front of him, expelling a jet of ruby light. A crash sounded in the hall and glass shattered. A soft mumbling reached Camille's ears from the hall, followed suit by a jet of cream-colored light that sunk into Mr. Beaufort's chest. Eyes wide, he collapsed onto the floor, his wand rolling out from under him. A slender figure, silhouetted by the lighting, appeared immediately to stand just before Mr. Beaufort's body. The adults scrambled for their wands and the children cried out. Camille stood unmoving; his eyes wide and locked on the figure standing over his prone father.

"_Silencio Imperitum_. _Immobulutum Maxima_." The figure whispered.

The pandemonium that ensued within the dining room ended as quickly as it began.

Camille tried to turn to see his family, but his limbs would not respond nor would his lips answer his will to call out to them. The figure pointed what he assumed was a wand at his father, its tip glowed with a bulb of indigo and he watched as his father stood and came to stand at his left side, his eyes alight with the same color as the wand tip. Footsteps sounded from the hall of the foyer; his mother, her eyes echoes of his father's, entered the dining room and stood on his right.

"Now," the figure wheezed, in a voice tinged with twisted amusement and satisfaction, "As you were." It waved its wand.

Camille heard the shuffle of his family, then silence. His body turned about of its own accord and saw that his family was standing as they had the moment before they had begun to sing. Their forms were awash in pale candlelight, eerie and still, like a black and white portrait. He felt his mother's left hand fall on his shoulder, his father's right hand on the other. He sensed their eyes on his face. He could not feel the warmth from their hands.

A hideous cackle filled the room that chilled his blood and rattled his bones. Camille wanted to close his eyes, but his body was still not his own. There was nothing he could do, but watch.

"_Prismio_."

Camille looked on as a multicolored whirlpool of luminance sheathed the ceiling. The dimmed bulbs of the chandelier burst; a melody of shattering glass echoed in and about the manor. Every manner of light was extinguished as if sucked into the whirlpool that had slowly begun to descend. Camille's vision blurred with tears, his eyes searing as the radiant luminance blinded and engulfed him. A cold burning sensation pierced and wrapped about his entire spine. The figure howled its blood-curdling cackle. The world went dark.

* * *

Claudine Villefranc peeped from behind the old maple tree at the end of her driveway and waited. Minutes prior, she had pointed a poor beggar woman in the Beauforts' direction, having asked, in the sorriest of ways, if there was a generous family living near that would spare her a loaf of bread and a blanket. Ms. Villefranc was at first appalled and disgruntled by the beggar, even more so disgruntled with herself when she made the realization that she considered the Beauforts as generous and giving. Then, watching the beggar walk up to Beaufort's drive, decided what a wondrous opportunity this was; how off-put the beggar would make them! And, any discomfort to the Beauforts was a boon to her, so, she sent the beggar on her way with false well-wishings and an even more false, "Happy Christmas."

The old woman watched the beggar pound on the Beaufort's door and almost laughed aloud. When she saw the wretched Mrs. Beaufort answer the door, her dentures nearly flew from her mouth. And then something happened that she did not understand. A flesh-colored light swallowed up the Beaufort porch and the next thing she saw was Corrine Beaufort sprawled on the family's foyer floor, the beggar standing over her. Claudine Villefranc clapped a hand to her mouth and ducked behind the tree. Her old heart hammered against her ribcage and numbed her bosom. Something was wrong, that much she understood.

When next she summoned the courage to look, the beggar was gone, Mrs. Beaufort was still upon the floor, and another flash of ochre light filled the manor. Ms. Villefranc did not duck away, but found herself looking for the beggar, trying to catch a glimpse of her silhouette through the curtained windows. Her search ended abruptly for something horrid occurred; Mrs. Beaufort's body picked itself up and walked back into the foyer. Moments later, every Christmas light bulb strapped to the manor burst into a spray of light and colored glass and every light within the home flicked out. Then all of a sudden, a bright light shone from all the windows of the manor, its hues that of a rainbow, had it been mixed in a pot and dumped out. Then, the manor was dark. The pure quiet of winter stole over Belle Rue once more and nothing moved, but snow and the trees so much like skeletal arms clawing at the grey sky beyond their reach.

After what seemed like an eternity had passed, long enough so that a nest of snow had formed atop Claudine Villefranc's knit cap, the beggar woman emerged from the agape door of the Beaufort home and stood, facing the lane. Ms. Villefranc watched the woman take a step forward, turn on her heels, and vanish with a _CRACK_. The old woman cried out in fear, sending the nest on her head onto her face. She batted away violently, thinking it some demon sent on her by the beggar, the murderer. When she had cleared what she discovered was snow from her face, her dentures were no where to be found, her lip was bleeding, and she felt a welt forming beneath her right eye. Surveying she was alone, she shuffled backward a few meters, her eyes darting left and right, then turned and sprinted to her home, opened the door, bolted it shut, gathered her cats up, and barricaded them all in the master bedroom.

Moments later, a cacophony of _CRACK_s sounded from the cul-de-sac. Despite herself, Ms. Villefranc peeked between the short curtains of the small square window of the room and spied thirteen figures that were standing in the lane. Each was stranger than the last; a mix of different colored cloaks and strange hats, no beards and too much beards, tall and short, fat and thin, women and men both; the list went on. She watched them approach the Beaufort home. It was all too much for Claudine Villefranc; she fainted, crumpling to the floor where she had been standing.

The leader was taller than the rest, standing almost a meter taller than some and half that much wider than most. Her features were large and wide yet defined, strong and intimidating yet gentle, and her orb-like eyes were full of kindness. The woman was dressed in a black, rabbit fur-lined, satin cloak, its hem brushing the ground, buckled leather boots that stopped below her knees, and a ruffled crimson blouse that barely held in her ample bosom. Her long, eloquent fingers were bedecked with rings of various metals, sizes and shapes, and around her neck she wore a loose opal chain, its length reaching to nestle in the cranny of her bosom. Styled in a voluminous bob, her hair was of the deepest mahogany, and, despite the weather, it held its shape perfectly. Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, her stride both graceful and full of purpose, made her way toward the lightless manor before her, her dozen comrades close behind.

Madame Maxime drew her wand from inside her cloak, its length a quarter size of her arm. The dozen figures behind her mimicked her action, drawing a diversity of wands from pockets both seen and unseen.

The half-giantess stopped before stepping onto the porch and turned about, "_Arrêtez. _Alain_, _Vivien;_ regarde la rue et la maison_._ Maintenant, _ze rest of you, _suivez moi_."

Two of the figures stopped and stood guard outside the manor, while Madame Maxime led the rest into the manor.

"Madame, we cannot take ze risk of you being 'armed; allow me to lead ze way, I beg you," a thickly accented man insisted as they stepped past the open door and into the cold foyer. Its cherry-paneled floor was alive with wispy snowdrifts.

"I don't zink zat will be _necessaire_, Baudouin; I fear zat we are too late and that zey are all dead by 'er hand." Madame Maxime remarked grimly over her shoulder to the man closest to her as she lifted her wand skyward, "_Homenum Revelio_."

Her wand flared with a faint white light and was tugged forward slightly by the magic; there was life within the home, somewhere beyond.

"_Lumos_." Madame Maxime's wand tip lit with a bulb of pale azure light, bathing the white walls of the room in a ghostly iridescent glow, throwing eleven drawn shadows upon their surface. "_Allez, viens_. Someone is yet alive."

The eleven men and women filtered into the manor, wand tips alight. Baudouin LeCraine, the leading auror, split his nine fellow aurors into groups of three and sent them to search the house, top to bottom. The men and women of the _Ministère de Magie de la Français_ were as skilled and determined as Madame Maxime was grand, and set off immediately. Soon, the manor was polluted by echoes of footsteps and the creak of floorboards.

The Headmistress wasted no time and cleared the foyer shortly with her lengthy stride, stepping over a fallen portrait and its glass fram that was strewn about it, and entered the kitchen, snowdrifts billowing in her wake. With Baudouin in tow, they concluded swiftly that the kitchen was of no interest and continued onward. As she crossed the threshold into the dining room, Madame Maxime stopped in her tracks with a gasp and clapped her free hand to her mouth, her dark eyes going wide with horror. Baudouin squeezed past her through the doorway and muttered, "_Par Dieu_," as he bore witness to a scene he knew he would never forget.

Before them, a man, woman, and child stood facing the long, dark-stained oaken dining table that was set with holiday plastic and paper ware and utensils. The child stood between the man and woman whom both had a hand resting on the shoulder nearest them. Across the table was an assortment of figures: three children of different ages, two female and one male, four seniors, two male and two female, and four adults, two male and two female. They appeared frozen in time; their eyes were open and unblinking, their gleeful expressions remained plastered on their faces, and their bodies remained unmoving. The children held onto their parents, the wives leaned against their husbands, the husbands nudged one another; all movement perpetually locked in a moment of time.

Strangely, all of their skin seemed to gleam from the wandlight, reflect it even. The Headmistress composed herself and after a moment she inched forward and tapped her wand on the shoulder of the man nearest her. The sound that greeted her wand was not what she expected and it sickened her. It was unnatural, like the clatter that was made when setting a teacup down upon its saucer.

"Baudouin," Madame Maxime hissed and indicated the fourteen figures with her wand, "Zey are all _porcelaine_!"

"_Mais_, you're spell indicated ozerwise, did it not?" Baudouin asked encouragingly, trying to sound hopeful erstwhile processing the reality of what was in front of him: fourteen porcelain figurines that were once very much alive.

Madame Maxime nodded her head and drew in a deep breath, "_Oui_, in zat you are most correct," she said in a thankful tone, shooting him a slight grin.

The half-giantess approached and prodded the woman figure in front of her wand; the same sharp, hollow noise answered. She shook her head in disgust and disbelief before moving on to the boy between who she presumed to be his parents. This time the impact of her wand was dull, flat, and nearly devoid of noise, as it connected with the actual material of the boy's clothes. She moved closer and placed the back of her hand upon the boy's exposed neck. The flesh was cool on the surface but she felt warmth beneath.

"Zis one, _ici_! Ze boy is alive!"

Madame Maxime reversed her touch and felt his skin with her palm to be sure and when she was, her elation was evident in the toothy grin with which she regarded Baudouin as he came to stand beside her.

"He's been hit wiz a Full-Body Bind Curse, but he is alive," she said upon further inspection.

"What of ze boy's _famile_?" Baudouin asked, still grim despite the small fortune.

Madame Maxime pondered the question momentarily before answering, "Shrink zem."

Baudouin blanched, "_Excusé moi?" _

"In zis state, zey are not but objects, no?"

"_Oui, mais_—,"

"Shrink zem so zey can be easily transported to ze _Ministère _in ze care of yourself and your aurors." The woman explained, and then looked at the figurines and added, "Perhaps somezing can yet be done for zem." Though, as she finished, a cloud of doubt settled on her brow.

Baudouin considered the woman's wisdom, looking to the porcelain family, then back to the woman, nodding his accord.

"Very well zen. And as for ze boy; where will 'e go? If she should discover zat he lives…"

Madame Maxime waved her wand and the boys form hovered from beneath his parents' hands and levitated to her side. The witch whispered a multitude of incantations until finally the proper counter-curse was enacted. The boy's rigid form went limp, looking much like a corpse suspended in an invisible sea. Though they did not no why, it was clear that the boy was unconscious.

"I will take ze boy, Camille, if I am not mistaken, to Hogwarts. I will entrust him to ze care of ze Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, until we can sort zis mess out. He will be safe zere."

"Go zen, we will finish zings 'ere. _Bon chance_, Madame."

"_Au revoir_, Baudouin. I will see you soon, I am sure."

The man bowed and left the dining room, taking the hall to the foyer.

Madame Maxime watched him go then recalled the spell Dumbledore had taught her earlier in the year for the purpose of immediate communication with himself and the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Thrusting her wand into the air, a silver mist was expelled from her wand. The mist swirled and, after a moment, it coalesced into a substantial form: a silvery ethereal canary flitted where the mist had once been. She spoke to the canary which cocked its head here and there, listening intently. Once the brief message was complete, the Patronus evaporated.

The Headmistress then turned, wrapped an arm around the suspended boy's legs just below his buttocks, and casually draped him over her shoulder. Turning on her heels, Madame Maxime performed a Side-Along Apparation and a moment later she found herself outside the snow-blanketed town of Hogsmeade, near Madam Puddifoot's, where a most peculiar man awaited her. He was a very old man, his beard, long and silver, was tucked into his belt and he was dressed in purple robes. His silver-framed, half-moon spectacles sat at the end of his long crooked nose.

The man clucked his tongue at her arrival.

"_Bon soire_, Olympe," Albus Dumbledore greeted, grinning warmly up at the woman.

"_Salut_, Albus. I wish our meeting was under different circumstance," she said apologetically, returning his smile with a weak one of her own. "Zank you for your help in zis. I could not zink of anyone better."

"No trouble, Olympe, no trouble," He extended the crook of his arm, "Now, shall we?"

Upon linking her arm with his, they Disapparated and found themselves within the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Madame Maxime took the unconscious boy and laid him upon the nearest bed, regarding him with eyes full of sorrow and compassion.

"Zis is Camille Beaufort. Take good care of him; 'e 'as no one left."

"You have my word, Olympe, he will be safe, here, at Hogwarts."

* * *

**This is the first chapter so its purpose is mainly to introduce; the second chapter is much more personal and the story really begins there, but it's necessary to set up a story is it not? As for the M rating, the M type content will come later, so, you'll just have to stick around.  
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**Reviews will always be appreciated, positive or negative, general or constructive. Thanks for reading :]  
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	2. New Year's

New Year's

Soft warmth caressed his left cheek as if a weightless, loving hand rested there. The boy, perception straddling the border of the realms of the awake and the asleep, smiled and subconsciously welcomed the gentle embrace. His subconscious obeyed his unspoken command and steered his arm as it reached slothfully to grab at the wonderfully warm hand. As his own hand plummeted for the gentle stranger's, a sudden sharp impact on his cheek yanked his consciousness into the less pleasant realm. The boy's senses returned with a vengeance. His left cheek stung as did the palm of his left hand, his stomach ached and burned in protest of the unjustified famine it had apparently been enduring, his sight swam, and his tongue was saturated with the copper of fresh blood. He soon construed all that had occurred: he had slapped himself awake, bit his tongue in the process, and was stricken with deplorable hunger. His ears picked up snippets of a heated argument between a young man and a woman. The smell of fresh laundering wafted heavily throughout the air which he found most comforting.

The boy sat up in an unfamiliar rectangle bed, which really was no more than a thin mattress fitted with pressed linens and a generic cotton-filled pillow upon a white, four-post metal frame. He took a survey of the alien surroundings, sun-dappled as they were from the light shining past the criss-cross wire covers of the ceiling-high windows that were segmented along the longer legs of the rectangular room. Spread evenly throughout the room was about two dozen more beds identical to the one upon which he sat. Each bed was accompanied by a divider, which was no more than a blue curtain hanging from a metal rack that matched the bed frames, as if to afford occupants some meager semblance of privacy. He seemed to be the only occupant in what he assumed was some sort of hospital facility. His bed was situated at the far end, nearest the wall. Beyond the windows he glimpsed a magnificent landscape like that of which people only see on postcards. And even though it was right in front of him, he still found the reality of the gorgeous view hard to grasp.

The muffled argument swelled as the boy leaned forward to peer around the space's divider; his eyes located its source: a square little room in the corner of the large rectangle, at the opposite end and nearest the double doors.

"Can _it_... removed… magic?"

"… Tattoos… Not _that _kind!"

"My father… _you dare_?"

"… _Not_… this further!"

The urgency to know where he was spiked as the voices began to fade. And, when he came to think of it, he needed to know _who_ he was. The reality tightened his chest and incensed his lungs.

"_Excusé moi?_" The voice that left his lips was as foreign to him as the loose white cotton clothes that clung to his cool, clammy skin. _What language was that_,_ French_?

The voices died instantly and the clatter and shuffle of heeled boots preceded the softer steps of a longer stride. An average, elderly woman, her poise not yet addled by the passage of time, walked briskly into the room. The tuft of auburn hair that could be seen beneath her simple white headdress was sprinkled with silver and her crimson robes were covered by a body-length apron of similar make. Worry lines were etched permanently into her high-set brow and below her large brown eyes as well as the corners of her lips. The boy took a guess as to why as she approached him, her lips pursed in concern, her eyebrows uplifted, and her eyes open wide.

A few steps behind her, a boy followed her entrance. He was young, of average height and slender figure, with sleek ice blond hair that was styled in a parted comb-over. He wore a handsome, charcoal gray, argyle sweater patterned by deep emerald and silver diamonds, form-fitting black jeans, and luxurious black leather loafers. He stopped a few feet from the boy on the bed and the woman. The exposed pale flesh of his face, neck, and hands seemed to glow in the bright sunlight and his hair shined brilliantly. His beauty was only matched by the intensity of his demeanor, cold and foreboding, beautiful; a splendor in its own right.

"You're awake," the woman said, as much to the boy on the bed as to herself, taking a seat beside him. "Good, good…very good," she chanted happily while patting his hand that she had taken into her lap.

The boy's gaze lingered yet, enraptured so was he by the immaculate purity of this…_embodiment_ of beauty that stood in his presence, this…_Apollo_… who was that again? The question beleaguered his mind and stole him away from his thoughts, sending his mind's eye down a dark corridor of locked doors, all to which he did not have the keys.

The woman continued speaking, unaware that her only audience was her conscience.

"You gave us all quite a scare, you know. We did not know if you were ever going to wake. No casting would reveal such things. Why? We had not the slightest clue! We were so worried! So young, so young, and… My word, listen to me, droning on like a fresh-pulled mandrake; you must be hungry, dear, how about some breakfast?"

At the mention of food, the boy on the bed perked up and nodded enthusiastically to the woman. As to how he understood her, since apparently he knew how to speak French and presumably knew how to read, write, as well as understand it, he had no idea. She was speaking English, her accent clear and light, and he knew perfectly well what she was saying.

"Right then," She said, smiling wide then hesitated as she motioned to stand. "Oh and do forgive my manners, dear, I am Madam Pomfrey, Hogwart's matron nurse. I run the hospital wing," she indicated the rectangular room with a brief sweep of a robed arm. She stood to leave. "Draco, you'll keep him company, won't you?" Madam Pomfrey said, more of a command than a request, and then added sternly, "You owe to me at least that much for what I have told you."

"Yes, Madam," the boy, Draco, said flatly, bowing his head slightly as he did so. His voice was light and airy, concise and void of err, and was as cold as his bearing.

They exchanged a look as Madam Pomfrey walked past him, her robes trailing behind, and exited through one of the large quarter-circle shaped double doors, leaving the two boys alone.

The splintered rays of sunlight that littered the room faded and were birthed anew, always changing and always moving, their presence and absence dictated by the light gray smattering of clouds that rolled endlessly across the early morning sky.

Their eyes locked and remained so, as beams of sunlight danced across the tile flooring. Draco folded his arms. The boy shifted uncomfortably as Draco's stare of intrigue became a wary glare. He strolled slowly to stand beside the foot of the boy's bed.

At this close distance, the boy on the bed could make out the pigment of the blond's large eyes, though the revelation, he knew, was making it more difficult not to stare outright. The bodies of the irises were light gray with subtle streaks of bold silver that appeared to alternate into a dark jade depending on how much or how little light was reflected from the surface of the eye or eyes.

_He's beautiful_…_ he's beautiful_…

"May I?" The blond asked, after a few more wordless moments had slipped passed, glancing at the empty space on the mattress.

The boy on the bed was caught off guard; not only was the beauty speaking to him, but was asking to further decrease the proximity between them. The prospect set his pulse to that of drums beat to a furious rain dance. As his lips moved to form a response, a nod of his head was the faster, and Draco sat without further invitation. They continued to look at each other, the blond making particular effort to look the brunette in the eye, until Draco abruptly broke the silence.

"Who are you?"

The question was simple, yet the boy on the bed struggled to find the answer. He was wandering the dark corridor once more, tugging at door knobs that would not budge. A prickle at the very corner of the reaches of his mind produced a three-letter word that forced its way out of his throat, past his teeth, and between his lips.

"Cam," the boy answered softly.

The name rang with familiarity, but as hard as the boy tried he could not recall its origin. It was a nickname, of that he was strangely certain. But what was his _name_?

Draco blinked, then smirked, "Alright, Cam," he reached over his lap and extended his right hand toward Cam, "I'm Draco, Draco Malfoy." The introduction was deeply set with pride.

Cam took the boy's hand in his own and shook it firmly and briefly, and found himself grinning sheepishly as he released Draco's warm hand.

Draco grinned meekly in return then rested his hands in his lap, his gaze remaining persistent and unyielding. Soon, he realized he was staring, as Cam looked about the room uneasily.

"Er, sorry, if I was staring… I've just never seen someone with two different colored eyes before," Draco apologized, shifting on the bed to lean back on his hands.

Cam blanched, his eyebrows arcing, "I have what?" He blurted the query in near-perfect English. He decided not to worry about that factor of how for the moment. 'Two different colored eyes;' that could not be right, he felt it.

"Two different colored eyes," Draco reiterated. His eyes became wary once again, though this time they glinted with intrigue. "Here," the blond said, drawing his wand and pointing it toward the small office where he and Pomfrey had been minutes earlier, "_Accio _mirror."

A small, red plastic hand mirror from the office flew into Draco's outstretched hand. He handed the mirror to Cam, who hesitantly raised it level with his face.

Cam knew the face he saw in the mirror's reflection like a former acquaintance; the recognition was there but familiarity was lacking. He knew the small button nose, the prominent jaw line and softly rounded chin, the shaggy amber-tinged dark chocolate hair and smallish light red lips, the kempt dark eyebrows and full eyelashes. Behind those lashes he beheld both the known and unknown simultaneously. The right iris was swathed in the deepest bright blue. In its depths Cam saw the familiar; he knew that color, that eye, that self he saw reflected within. The left iris bore the proverbial truth of a nameless peril; in its vivid, pale green depths he found no spark of remembrance, nothing to which he could grasp and make sense of… all was empty, a dark cavernous pit.

A cold drip trickled down his spine as his entire being was intoxicated with fear. An image played in his mind: a flash of brilliant light and then he heard a laugh… a _cackle_, hideous and cruel in all ways. It crawled beneath his skin and reverberated within his skull. He knew that laugh… How did he know that laugh and what was it that made him so afraid? _Why _could he not remember?

Draco watched the boy stare at his reflection, observed the wince that subtly twisted his features, and the sole quiver that shook his entire body.

"Cam," Draco said, his face pinched in a mix of concern and puzzlement, "Cam?" He called once more with a little more force.

The boy snapped his concentration away from the mirror and looked at the blond questioningly.

"Are… you okay? It looked like—,"

"I'm fine, thanks," Cam interjected harshly then quickly added, "Just hungry, I guess." He tried to grin in attempt to ward off any more probing, but only succeeded in lifting a corner of his mouth for a brief second. To his relief, Draco, thankfully, let him be, and they sat in silence.

Moments later, a humming Madam Pomfrey entered, rear leading, pulling a trolley stuffed with an expansive assortment of goods and treats. After passing through the doors, she wheeled the trolley around to her front and pushed it down the aisle. On the top of the trolley was a tray laden with a gourmet breakfast of hot tea and coffee, fruit-filled scones, scrambled eggs and sausage patties still steaming, muffins with choices of jam and honey, and a rather large glass of milk. When she came to a stop at the foot of her patient's bed, his eyes lit up and he licked his lips eagerly as he examined the feast laid out before him.

"You must be a saint," Cam declared, smiling up at the woman, his eyes twinkling.

Madam Pomfrey chuckled and a flush of color stole into her cheeks, "No, no, dear, just the nurse," she responded modestly and shot him a grateful wink as she stepped around Draco's legs and set the stilted tray across Cam's lap. Back besides the trolley she smiled with satisfaction as Cam dug into his meal with gusto and then asked, "Shall I just leave this here, then?" She indicated the trolley.

Cam could only nod enthusiastically as he stuffed into a sausage patty into his already full mouth.

Draco watched contently as Cam filled his face with food and gulped down half of his milk. The only thing that prevented him from bursting with laughter was the effort with which he committed to subduing his tongue, keeping it clamped firmly between his teeth.

Madam Pomfrey then turned to address Draco, and said, as warmly as she could, "Thank you, Draco."

Draco continued to watch the strange boy that sat only inches from him, oblivious to the implied dismissal.

"That will be _all_, Draco, you may leave now," Madam Pomfrey said, carefully straining her words.

Draco finally pulled himself away from the scene, looked up to Madam Pomfrey, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes, then stood, "Yes, Madam."

"No!"

Madam Pomfrey and Draco were surprised by the sudden outburst and looked upon its source, confusion clearly splayed on their features.

Cam swallowed down the wad of food in his mouth, "I, er, could still use the company…" He said bashfully, looking from Draco to Pomfrey and back.

Pomfrey did well to mask her disapproval, "Well, in that case, the decision is Draco's," she surmised, eyeing the blond beside her all the while then said to Cam, "I'll be back after a short while to check in on you, alright, dear? Just go ahead and set the tray on the floor when you're finished." Without waiting for either of the boys' responses, she walked away, entered her office and shut the door.

"Ruddy old bat, that one," Draco warned under his breath after the office door closed shut.

Cam blinked at the comment then took a bite of his eggs, unsure of how to respond.

"No matter," the standing boy remarked then turned to Cam, "I have things that need being done around the castle, so I can't be staying."

_So_, _he was in a castle was he_?

"It's okay, I understand," he said, his mind boggled by the news. He swallowed down a bit of delicious eggs, "Thanks anyways."

Draco looked at him for a few moments more then turned and strode swiftly away.

Cam let the disappointment he felt darken his already complex mood. He watched the slender figure of his Apollo, observing his graceful steps and blushed at his own embarrassment for having let his eyes settle on the bounce of the blond's petite buttocks which so happened to be outlined wonderfully by his dark jeans.

As the boy pushed open the quarter-circle door to exit, he stopped.

Cam's heart began to race, guessing Draco had read his mind, and then dismissed the absurd notion with a thought.

The blond turned his body just so and looked back at the boy on the bed. A smile curled his pink lips then he turned and walked past the opened door.

When the door clanked shut, Cam felt a flutter in his stomach, and this time, he was one hundred percent certain it was not due to hunger.

* * *

Cam stood beneath a lone lamppost in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Ringing it were four homes of different sizes, each with their own unique architecture and floor plan, color schemes of which some were elaborate and others monotonous, all of which were wrapped in Christmas lights and holiday ornaments. The fifth house, more so a manor, positioned centrally, with two houses on either side, of the cul-de-sac, though the most sophisticated in appearance by far, was dark, lifeless.

Though snow blanketed everything as far as the eye could see, Cam felt not the bite of the chill weather on his skin even in his thin, hospital-given vestments nor did he see his breath fog as it hissed between his lips and from his nostrils. His naked feet remained dry against the wet asphalt and were as warm as if they were beside a fireplace. The air was still as if waiting, the atmosphere felt thick, heavy. Black clouds broiled in the sky, birthing short-lived waves of thunder every so often.

The lightless abode beckoned to the boy; its desire manifesting like a thousand pin pricks along his spine. He offered no resistance to the lure that tugged at his chest, and like a fish duped by the hook, he was drawn forward. He ambled up the wide driveway, the gloomy giant looming closer with each step. His feet traversed the snow-covered cobblestone pathway that branched from the drive and led to his left and carried him up onto the vast portico. Its length spanned the entire front and was bordered by an Old Victorian balustrade of twisted, spike-tipped black iron. Beside the door frame was a large, silver number "3." The elevated blue-faced door before him, ajar as it was, revealed a fraction of the manor's innards. Renovated, old-fashioned furniture, sofas and armchairs, from the 1700s lined the walls while frescoes of French vistas brightened the otherwise colorless foyer, their frames complimenting the glossy Cherry floor.

Cam knew this place, the furnishings, the décor, all of it; his core ached with yearning to remember the how and why, but his mind refused to answer the plea of his soul that came again and again.

As he stepped into the foyer, the same intangible force that drew him into manor now guided him left once more. The wood paneling bowed to his passage without the slightest protest and soon Cam felt its solidity give way to a fury sponge-like texture as he entered a long hallway, wide enough for three of him to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The walls of the hallway were dotted with countless portraits, black-and-white and color both, and its floor was of white, plush carpeting. In each, there were always three people: a man, a woman, and a boy, always vibrant and happy. The boy was him he realized, as for the man and woman… he wracked his brain, but no remembrance, no image, no fleeting thought, would unveil itself to him. Who were they? Who was _he_? The photos depicted the trio in various magnificent scenes, ranging from picnicking on a veranda, huddling together in sharp orange life-vests on an extravagant cruiser, watching a sun set over snow-capped mountains, to sitting in front of a Christmas tree, presents all around. He stopped all together.

_Christmas_… the word gave him pause; why! Why did the word affect him as such? The numerous questions he was helpless to appease ate at his sanity. He stumbled forward; he had to move on or surrender to madness. He convinced himself the answers awaited him deep within the gloomy bowels of the manor, so, he continued down the hall.

A few meters away from the end of the hall, Cam faltered. Thirteen people stood in the room beyond. Their barely visible features were grayed over by the pallid light of a source that he concluded was not the chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling, hanging just above an expansive table. Their eyes were as listless as the expressions they wore on their faces and as black as if their pupils were fully dilated. Each pair of blackened spheres bore into him. Had they been miniature suns behind magnifying lenses he undoubtedly would have been reduced to a smoldering heap. The statuesque mix of people consisted of elders, adults and, children. Eleven of them stood close together on the far side of the long table, the other two stood on the near side, about a meter apart. It was the man and the woman from the photos. The duo each raised an arm and held it open; the invitation was clear.

Cam felt his feet sliding across the carpet, though, he did not will his legs move, or perhaps was it _the carpet_ was sliding across _his feet_. He only had to look down, past his firmly locked stance, and had his answer. The boy barely compressed the panic that welled in his gut, a task made all the harder when his sight was set in front of him once more; the world about him _stretched_, every feature being drawn out until it all seemed to blur and blend together. The world was like fruit leather being pulled between a child's hands, right before splitting into two jagged halves.

As soon as he sensed reality would be torn apart, it drew back into itself and normalcy, if it could be called that, was restored. Too absorbed was he by the bizarre occurrence, he only took note of his newfound whereabouts when it was already too late to alter them. He stood, about-face, between the man and the woman, their inviting arms no longer outstretched, but upon his shoulders, feeling like twin blocks of ice. Startled, both by the change of locale and by the unexpected sensation, Cam motioned to move away, but as he did, the light grasp of his shoulders became an iron grip. Panic culminating, he attempted again and again, to no avail. He might as well have been trying to move a mountain.

As their black eyes met his colored orbs, his gut leapt into his chest; the corners of their mouths were drawn wide into perverse, maniacal grins, baring blackened rows of teeth and sickly gray gums.

Suddenly, a presence flooded the room. A chill seeped into his being, cooling his flesh, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. His gaze was forced straight ahead by some will greater than his own and he beheld a terrific sight. A figure shrouded in pure darkness, stood, or appeared to stand, at the lip of the hall, a meter or more from the fourteen occupants of the dining room. It was a void, a void in the fabric of all-being, emptiness given shape and form. Tendrils of its shadowy cloak waved and whipped as if by an unfelt breeze, broke off and dissipated into nothingness only to be replaced; a self-contained cycle of eternal murk, obscured forever to the realm of light. The pallid luminescence of the room was morphed into a wisp-like substance, suspended in the air above the table then was siphoned instantly and utterly into the black rift that was this, the incarnation of shadow. Death itself had come for him.

Cold perspiration ran down Cam's face and neck. He winced, feeling each bead solidify and clinch his skin. He felt his flesh, beneath the unyielding arctic grip, begin to blister and he cried out in pain. Tears flowed from his eyes only to crystallize moments after. This was it. This was the end.

Death began to raise a shadow-wrapped arm.

"Give in; surrender," commanded a harmony of whispers. Thirteen pairs of lips, motioning with mechanical precision, voiced their creed.

The arm ascended further, seemingly biding time. No; Death was savoring the last moments of the boy's life. The shadow tendrils began to whirl and whip wildly as if tossed about by a malevolent, persisting gale.

"Give in; surrender," the whispers droned. The tempo was building, "Give in; surrender. Give in; surrender. _Give in_; _surrender_," the pitch became harsh and the volume grew.

The ascent progressed, arousing the thirteen servants of shadow even further. Their irises boiled over, the inky contents consuming the entirety of their eyes. Their chant was the ambrosia to their feast of borne ecstasy, purest in the presence of their master, their lord.

The boy began struggling futilely.

"_Give in_;_ surrender_! _GIVE IN_;_ SURRENDER_!"

The shadowed limb finished its climb.

"_GIVE IN_!_ SURRENDER_!"

A blinding light flashed.

"NO!"

_CRASH_. The shatter of delicate china winked Cam from the clutches of hell.

When he became conscious of his surroundings he saw that he was still in the hospital wing of Hogwart's, still in his bed, still alive. He was sitting upright and his body was slick with cool sweat. His clothes were soaked entirely, keeping his skin coated in slimy moisture. The room was dark save for the light of the half-dozen levitating candles above his bed and the weak light from what he guessed was the nurse's office. The trolley was parked at the foot of his bed as it had been before and on the floor beside the bed was the tray, overturned, the contents of which were scattered across the tile: bits and pieces of crumbs, what was left of a jam-covered muffin, a fork and butter knife, a used napkin, and shards of china and glass—the remains of platters and cups.

It was only a dream, a nightmare. But it had felt so _real_! Remembering the titanic grip of the man and woman and brought up a hand to a shoulder. Upon contact he winced for the skin tingled and stung at his touch. The flesh there was that of a tip of a nose left exposed to winter's kiss; numb, flushed with color, and sensitive to abrupt warmth.

A laugh… no, _the_ laugh, no more than a faint echo from the brink of his psyche, haunted him, mocked him.

Before he could give the discovery or the mocking laughter any more thought, he heard the clatter of two pairs of booted feet sauntering hastily down the aisle in his direction. Within moments, the owners of the booted feet made their appearance. It was Madam Pomfrey along with a peculiar old man, the likes of which Cam had never laid eyes upon.

_Well_, the boy thought to himself, most annoyed, _I guess I wouldn't really know if I had or hadn't_.

The old man was lanky and quite slim and wore gallant robes of deep mauve. His silver hair and matching beard were both of equal length, drooping just below his belted waist. At the tip of his long crooked nose rested half-moon spectacles that did little to hide his brilliant blue eyes which bore not a hint of age.

Madam Pomfrey lifted the hem of her robes and stepped over the mess in one swift motion and came to the side of her patient, her worry lines deeper than ever.

"What happened, dear, is everything alright?"

As she finished, she placed a hand gently upon the boy's shoulder.

The boy immediately threw off the hand with a violent jerk of his shoulder and hissed, squinting at the excruciating pain that throbbed beneath the reddened flesh.

"Oh, my!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, retracting her hand, but did not hesitate to come forward, cooing, "Let me see, dear, let me see."

Cam, despite the agitation, did not protest as she ever so gently peeled back the collar of his damp shirt, "It's the same on my other one too," he said in response to the look that came across her face; incredulity and awe.

"Poppy, if I may," said the old man, mimicking Pomfrey's maneuver over the mess to stand beside her, "I believe I can be of some use," he said to the boy with a reassuring wink. He drew his lengthy, thin wand from a baggy sleeve and set its tip lightly on the exposed shoulder and began muttering softly under his breath.

Cam felt the sensation of lukewarm water swirling not on top of but beneath the affected area and soon the pain and numbing vanished and the redness faded.

The old man the repeated the action on the opposite shoulder, with the same result, then replaced his wand within his sleeve.

"Now that that's been tended to," the old man remarked as he faced Madam Pomfrey, "I must insist you join the rest of the faculty in the evening's festivities; I can finish things up here," he said, indicating both the mess and the boy with a glance.

"Headmaster, really, it is my fault; I was so caught up in organizing my files for that awful Ministry woman, I forgot to check in on—"

"All the more reason to treat yourself to having the night off, don't you think so?" The Headmaster said, smiling understandingly, "You've been cooped in here for far too long. Now, if Miss Umbridge gives you gruff of any sort, kindly relay that she may take up the issue with me."

At his last sentence, the dour mask Madam Pomfrey had been wearing was cast away and was replaced by a smile of glowing appreciation and a glint in her eyes, "Oh, Albus, thank you!"

The man, Albus, patted the air as Madam Pomfrey turned, smiled warmly at Cam, skirted the mess, and walked away.

The woman stopped abruptly a few meters off and turned about, "And, sir," she called, "Happy New Year!"

"And to you as well, my dear," the Headmaster called after her, watching until she exited.

Once she had, he slipped his wand out from its sleeve and waved it at the jumble of refuse strewn about the tile. All in a manner of seconds, china and glass pieced themselves back together and placed themselves on the upright tray which then leapt atop the trolley, and the crumbs, the used napkin, and near-finished muffin vanished.

"Sir, I'm sorry about the mess; it was an accident."

"I'm certain it was, Master Beaufort, I'm certain it was, but as you can see, all is well," the Headmaster said with a grin, and then clucked his tongue, "Soggy clothes? That must be terribly uncomfortable," he sympathized, waving his wand in Cam's direction. The boy's hair swished in a rush of warm-hot air that left his clothes and body dry along with the once sweat-soaked linens.

_What did he call me_? _Beaufort_? He rolled the word around his tongue, soaked in its texture, composition, familiarity.

Replacing his wand, the man sat on the bed.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore and I am current Headmaster of this, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your name is Camille Beaufort. I know you have many questions to which, I am confident, I have many answers. You are old enough to know the truth; I will hold nothing from you."

"I'm listening."

* * *

When their long, seemingly one-sided, dialogue had concluded, ending with Cam's decline of Dumbledoreinvite to New Year's Eve fest, the boy found himself contemplating everything he had learned. To his surprise, Cam found himself more lost knowing everything than when he had known nothing at all. He mulled it over and over with every passing moment but was yet to grasp it. Maybe he didn't want to. Not now, at least. Not yet. No, not yet.

* * *

**Not to sound needy, but I could certainly go for some reviews. Tell me what you think! **

**Again, I say: thanks for reading! :]  
**

**Next to come, much flirtation in chapter three, A New Beginning!**

**P.S. I put this up while hungover from _MY _New Year's [haha fun irony] sooo if you see anything wrong with it please let me know!**

**Thanks**

**-Taylor  
**


	3. A New Beginning

A New Beginning

If his slumber had been plagued by the scanty claws of nightmares, he could not account their scathing. For Camille, his full night's rest was a god-send. Upon his waking, Madam Pomfrey handed to him a bow-stringed roll of parchment—"A message from the Headmaster,"—she had said after bidding him a "good morning." Camille rejoined the greeting then eyed the strung parchment as Madam Pomfrey took her leave of him, lightened scarlet robes trailing in place of her crimson ones. At the touch of a finger, the bowed string untied itself then leapt into the air and, after its ends looped into the semblance of butterfly wings, fluttered up and out of sight. Smiling after the bewitched string, Camille unrolled the parchment and read the neat script scrawled there.

_Monsieur Beaufort,_

_It is my hope that the Stringerfly did not give you a start on this fine morning, the finest first of January Hogwarts has seen since my time as Headmaster to my thinking. Not to worry, the delightful critter, a little invention of my own making (and not too miserable of one if I do say so myself!) will find its way back to me eventually, as it always does. Anyhow, you would be doing this old man the highest honor by joining him for a spot of breakfast. Shall we say my office, nine o'clock? We can discuss matters further then, or not. It is whatever you wish._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_PS. Simply ask and Madam Pomfrey will gladly show you on your way._

Camille set aside the parchment and briefly considered the letter. What was there to lose, if not to gain? With no superior argument to dissuade him, the unvoiced debate was settled shortly and his decision to leave was made final. Then again, there was the issue of his attire. He couldn't possibly dine with the Headmaster of Hogwarts appearing as atrocious as he. No, that wouldn't do at all. Searching about for a solution, he soon found an obvious one that had dodged his eye earlier. Or had the solution appeared there only as he began to look for one? He couldn't be sure, but let the notion die as he stood and approached the set of clothes that were folded neatly atop the foot of his bed.

The stack consisted of a dark blue long-sleeved thermal of simple fashion and faded blue jeans, thick wool socks and tan moccasins. As he sorted through each item, a well formed within him. Its cavity filled as his eyes drank in each icon of the individual articles. Camille knew these clothes. They were his clothes; they belonged to him. Where did they come from? The question begged for an answer. Madam Pomfrey hummed somewhere in the near vicinity. He called for her and she appeared a moment later.

"I'm sorry to bother you—"

"—No bother at all—"

"—but where did these clothes come from?"

"From your belongings, dear; they're all with the Headmaster, in his office."

"Oh, right—thank you, Madam Pomfrey. Wait, uh, one last thing…"

"Yes?"

"How do I get to Du—er—the Headmaster's office?"

The clothes fit him like a second skin and he cherished the sensation of identity that they bestowed. Once they and his moccasins were upon him, he set out promptly from the hospital wing. It had been seven days since his arrival at Hogwarts, six of which, he had learned, he had spent in a coma, so, the prospect of being up and about sped him on his way and put a spring in his step. Dumbledore had explained the coma to be a result of the spell that had affected him, along with memory loss, and the color change of his left iris. It was that same spell that had killed his entire family. Dumbledore had explained to him the night previous that the spell was, in itself, unpredictable, often generating a multitude of effects. The man had rambled on, as if fascinated, about the spells intricacies. Only a wizard of awesome power could have managed to create and cast this spell, he had professed, or, in this case, a witch. The witch was his aunt, his maternal aunt, an aunt he had never known of because no member of his family ever spoke of her, at least not to him or in his presence. She was not acknowledged therefore she never existed. Not until now.

Long before he was born, Audrie Hallett was sentenced to life in Azkaban at the age of twenty for grand scale murder, torture, and the castings of magic so perilous that they had been dubbed forbidden ages ago by the highest, most ancient laws known to the Wizarding World. Working along with the Ministries of multiple countries, the Halletts lured their estranged kin into a trap. The young girl was ambushed by not only her parents, twin sister, and extended family, but by twenty senior members of the Order of Merlin, each of them ranked first class. As the story went, she slew half the battalion of the wizards and witches of the Order before ultimately being subdued. She was sentenced the next day after a short trial.

As to how she had escaped Azkaban, Dumbledore did not say and Camille could have cared less to ask. What was done was done. His family was dead. Audrie Hallett had had her vengeance. Though Dumbledore did not say the words, he knew his death would complete the circle. She would come for him, of that he was certain. For the moment, it would seem he was within sanctuary, though these walls that surrounded him, if what Dumbledore had said about his aunt's power was true, offered only a tentative safety at best. He would not flee, in spite of it all. Besides, flight would only bring about his death quicker. As the thought crossed his mind, he reconsidered the course before dismissing it altogether. That was the easy way out and he knew it. No, he would not make himself an easy target. If he was to die by her hand, by Merlin, he would make the bitch work for it. A smile that belied his bettered mood crept onto his visage as he rounded the corner.

Distracted by his myriad thoughts, Camille had not paid heed to the veracity of the castle's limitless beauty. Stretched before him for what seemed like miles was a sun-lashed hall, its walls and floor tiled by marble. The tile surfaces reminded him of cream swirled into light caramel. Its eastern wall was beset by vast windows that stretched to touch the lofty, vaulted ceiling far above him. He felt as an ant might while intruding within a human home. Walking past them, he glimpsed a far greater view of the grounds than he had when he peered from the hospital's windows. The bright blue sky was clear and the sun blazed bright, warming his tanned flesh with its sultry white hands. Green fields of grassy hillocks continued on as far as the eye could see, bordered by the lapping waters of an enormous lake and by the craggy boughs of a gloomy wood. When the next staircase was upon him, he took it without thinking twice, more than a little hesitant to look away from the picture book scene. Atop the staircase's landing, the surroundings gave him pause, but he trudged on anyways, confident in his navigator abilities. Soon, he realized his confidence had led him astray and found himself to be lost within the labyrinthine halls of Hogwarts.

Continuing down a similar hall then another, both as enrapturing as the very first, Camille had a stroke of luck. At the end of the latter of the two halls, three boys stood in a huddle, conversing amongst themselves, their voices reaching him with no more volume than a murmur. One was leaned coolly up against the wall, his features hidden in the shadows between two shafts of sunlight. The other two had their backs to Camille, though, regardless of distance, he determined that both were quite pudgy, though their heights contrasted somewhat significantly. As he took a few step further into the hall, the fat backs sluggishly twisted about. Their rotund faces did not disprove his assumption. Camille raised a hand in salute as a greeting bubbled up from his gut—

"Oi!"

Well, that wasn't really ideal but—

"Oi, Cam!" The voice called again. It was coming from the group of boys.

The figure in the shadows leaned forward causing his features to bestride light and shadow. Still, the boy, for he was a boy, was quite identifiable. How could Camille forget, enamored as he had been, enamored as he yet was? Draco Malfoy motioned to him from across the hall. Camille would have to be _un imbécile_ to refuse. Giving his lengthy bangs a revitalizing flick of his head, Camille ambled down the hall, chewing the inside of his cheek the entire distance. It was all he could do to stave off a dastardly smile that sought to betray him.

With the distance shortened, Camille was able to depict the features of the pudgy pair; the tubby twosome; the chubby chums. Oh, how he could go on for days! The neatness of their cropped brunette hairs contrasted almost as much as their height. While the taller one's hair resembled that of tangled mop, the squat one's do was straight, as if freshly buzzed, though, to his disadvantage, it only made his round head look that much rounder. The short one reminded him of a dwarfish fleshy snowman; round, round, and more round. His cheeks were those of a doting grandmother's dreams. The taller looked the more intelligent of the duo, for his small dark eyes sat behind a pair of glasses, yet his foppish poise argued otherwise; perhaps he was dropped on his head as an infant? Camille couldn't be sure. It was rude to assume such morose things. His ruminations, though not in the least finished, were, for the moment, laid to rest as the trio formed a quartet.

"Crabbe, Goyle," Draco said, his eyes not leaving Camille's face, "This is Cam; he's new this term."

After a moment of silence, the short one scrunched his brow, forming a few rolls of flesh on his forehead.

"Cam," said Crabbe, "Cam what?"

"B—"

"A downright nosey lout this morning you are, Crabbe!"

The interjection was as swift as the swoop of a hawk.

Draco glared sternly at his companion and continued his berating. "What, hunger gone to your head again has it? Can't go a morning without breakfast then?"

"Er, I—"

"Right—Goyle—take Crabbe to the Great Hall and get yourselves something to eat. Maybe it'll do something for his manners."

"Okay. Meet up with you later on, then?"

Draco was nodding before Goyle finished his sentence. "Yes, yes; I'll come find you soon, now, off with you."

The two boys, firmly dismissed as they were, did not look back and soon disappeared around the corner. The remaining boys watched them leave and continued to do so even when there was nothing left to watch. Camille felt the tension; it lay across them like a heavy blanket stiff with starch. Why not cast it off? After a moment, he did just that.

"Hi," he said curtly, turning to the blond.

Draco looked to him, a singular corner of his mouth upturning, and then said, "Hi." The exhaled response had brimmed with relief. Camille chewed his cheek, contemplating what he would say. What could he say?

"Tha—"

"—So—Oh, sorry—"

"—No, go ahe—"

"—No, really—"

"—No, no, it's okay; you first."

The blond chuckled, a light pink powdering his cheeks, then cleared his throat and gave a shake of his head, the blush all but vanishing as he collected himself.

"What brings you to this part of the castle?"

"To be perfectly honest, I'm lost, actually."

"I could have guessed as much."

Camille took the crude remark as a joke, but his chortle died quickly upon is lips for Draco's plain expression remained as such.

"Where are you off to?"

"The Headmaster's office—"

Draco blinked then cocked his slightly to the side. "Why?"

Asphyxiated as he was by some awesome power wielded by the hoary orbs, a monstrous compulsion enthralled him as surely as if rapt by the waxen song of the siren.

"Professor Dumbledore… invited me… to have breakfast with him."

"And why does Professor Dumbledore want to have breakfast with you?"

The words drifted to him as if through layers of syrupy molasses, scooted lazily about his ears then kissed their creamy tangerine channels, like the whispered sooth-sayings of the succubus.

"He… hopes to discuss… matters…—"

"—What matters—"

The enchantment faltered then broke entirely as Camille's conscience took control and restored his defenses; walls were thrown up, bolted into place, reinforced by chain and lock. His eyes narrowed at the intruder who seemed all too eager to hurtle them, or break them down completely. Heat wafted up from the collar of his shirt to prickle his neck.

"I don't believe that to be entirely any of your business, Draco."

The boy's stance deceived him, revealing him to be undaunted by Camille's defensive retort which only made the defender that much more readily guarded. Blinking once more, Draco's façade shifted curiously; an expertly woven veil of contrite palled the masquerading inquisition.

"Please, forgive me, I didn't mean to pry; I am curious about you, Cam."

A half-truth would have to suffice for the time being, but Camille resolved to be wary of this charmer whose lips versed deception as skillfully as the king of thieves.

"No harm done, but really I must be going; I don't want to be late."

Camille stepped passed the blond—

"—Wait—"

Draco reached out to stop Camille and tugged at the boy's left arm then let go as he turned about.

"—let me make it up to you; allow me to show you the way to the Headmaster's office. Besides, you're already lost as it is."

Though correct as Draco indefinitely was, Camille hesitated and locked onto the boy's eyes. In them he glimpsed their calculating intellect, their analytical nature. There was more concealed within the depths of their silver pools than Draco let be known; Camille read as much. The tremulous cobalt of fear flickered dimly therein, stirred about in the sterling grays; the diluted viridian of trepidation tinged the silvery waters. Why were these emotions there, what had given them life? Camille read the boy before him as he might the leaves of a fascinating print of old; saw the truth between the black bold-faced sentences that constructed the laws and limits of the persona Draco assumed; glimpsed the snow-white soul, the true persona, encaged, bound by forces Camille could not determine. There was more to this boy, much more.

Renewed intrigue spoke where he would not, "Fine be me—lead the way."

The two walked on in a silence only made imperfect by the taps of their heels. They passed more elongated windows that barred yet more striking panoramas and put countless lacquer halls behind them whilst they danced in and out of light and its dark child.

Draco had admitted to Camille that he was curious about him. Though, given what had occurred only a few minutes before, and that he was presumably accurate in his reading of the blond, he had to wonder: what did 'curious' entail exactly? Here he was, new, in every meaning of the word in a ways, and here was this boy of great intelligence and sensual gait, tempting him with saccharine words, each syllable flicked delicately by his silver tongue. What was his aim; what was there to gain from him, a boy whom clung to the image of himself, an image marred, blurred, made foreign? Perhaps there was nothing at all. Perhaps this boy sought something he knew not to be there like, a hunter led astray by a base hound. It was only a matter of time before the huntsman would realize his hunt was to be fruitless. Camille was only to be certain of one thing which, ultimately, resulted in him being certain of two things: Draco Malfoy was curious about him, and he liked it that way.

As the pair started up a flight of winding stairs, Camille glanced to the huntsman at his left, eyed the pale flesh bereft of blemishes and pockmarks, the sensual rose-pink lips, delicate nose, defined cheekbones and jaw, the smallish dimpled chin, and a steely orb, and loosed the bait.

"So, you're curious about me?"

The tracks were laid.

The scent was caught.

"I am."

The chase was on.

* * *

For the majority of the journey to the Headmaster's office, Camille found that he was recounting a paraphrased variant of all that Dumbledore had told him about himself. The experience was unsettling. Though he believed the identity Dumbledore had all but handed to him was accurate, it was more than disconcerting to relay this identity when each word strummed and plucked in him chords of uncertainty. It was like trying to tell an entire novel while only having read its back cover. Mostly, Draco asked very basic questions: what his whole name was, where he was from, how old he was, what Quidditch position he played, and what his favorite school subjects were, among other things of similar ilk. The only specific question the blond asked pertained to his blood status—which he Camille found as more than off-putting—but when revealed that he was pure-blooded, the boy seemed to be overall happier to be in Camille's company than he had been any other time, smiling more often and laughing lightly in between a few witty exchanges when they occurred. Camille was rather quiet otherwise, except when answering questions or remarking at any conclusions Draco drew. In spite of his quiescence, Camille observed Draco being drawn ever more to the accidental mystery of him, of his life.

After passing through a few more hallways, some windowed, others more enclosing, and up a final flight of stairs, the two boys stood before a large stone gargoyle on the seventh floor of the castle.

"Well, here you are."

Camille looked about—expecting to see some grand entryway way or another appear out of the thin of the air.

"I don't understand. Where is _here_, exactly? I don't see an office anywhere…"

"It's here—" Draco indicated the monstrous bust before him, "behind the gargoyle."

Camille took a few steps forward to peek about the stone cretin—or attempted to do so.

"Er—"

"The professor didn't tell you the password?"

"You need a password to see the Headmaster?"

"Well, yeah—"

"And I suppose you don't know it either?"

Draco blinked and gave the back of his head a quick scratch, squinting one eye as he did so.

"I think it was something like wizzing-fizbee—"

"Was?"

"It changes after New Year's."

"Right," Camille huffed as he turned away from the stone effigy, exasperated.

His stomach groaned as he leaned against the far wall then slumped to the cold marble floor—_perfect_; not only would he be earning the Headmaster's displeasure, but he was missing breakfast too. A rogue tress of deep auburn loosed itself to dangle before his face and though annoyed, he watched it bob there, missing the subtle smirk with which he was being regarded. Draco's blurred form floated to his side and the two were silent for a while. Camille heard the ruffle and shifts of the boy leaning against the wall and buried his smile beneath the shade of his hair as he entertained the assumption that Draco was indeed struggling to find something to converse about. His conscience chuckled with giddy joy, like a child who had discovered sweets. _How cute! cute, cute, cute_. Camille furtively peeped up from beneath his auburn umbrella, his gaze tracing vertically the slender yet curvaceous lines closest to him—calves… thighs… Camille bit his lip—and that per—

"So—"

Camille cleared his throat, tossed his hair, and reeled in his meandering gaze as Draco broke the silence.

Perturbed by Camille's sudden action, Draco paused before continuing.

"—why did you transfer here?"

And the hunter finally cornered his quarry.

"It's funn—well, really it's—er…"

Camille's lips fumbled with each incomplete story he tried to formulate into truth as if they refused to lie.

With a quizzical expression, Draco observed the boy beside him, his eyes ever searching for what they could not see.

Camille pressed his back up against the wall and used the force of his legs to slide upward on the marble. The thump of his heart sang in his ears as he leaned against the wall, feet crossed. Should and Should-Not had fastened a rope about his brain and each pulled at one end or the other, each battling to win the game of tug-of-war. Honesty and Deceit each whispered their credos into opposite ears. Then, he looked once more into those gray-silver eyes and wavered.

"Draco…I—"

The stone gargoyle animated and stepped aside, revealing a passage behind where it had once been. A shadow stretched across the tile from the passage and grew steadily shorter, till soon footsteps were audible, then the Headmaster walked to mouth of the passage, stopped, and peered across the hall at the two boys.

"Now, there is my wayward breakfast guest," the Headmaster hailed musically in his airy tone, "and Draco! So very kind of you to have led him here, as I am certain you did. Yes, very kind."

Camille glanced at Draco as he was being addressed and took note of the subtle alteration in his poise and expression, as if one switch had been flicked off while another had been flicked on.

"I felt it my duty as a Prefect to show our newest student the way, sir."

"Quite right, Draco," Dumbledore said, looking from over his half-moon spectacles, "Ten points to Slytherin."

Camille watched the exchange and sensed a history between the two. So much he did not know! about this strange place and its people, and their respective histories alike! Only his proximity to the blond allotted him the moment to catch the cheery smirk the boy wore as he gave a curt bow.

"Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly in response and then looked to Camille.

"Good morning, Camille," the man said, smiling warmly, "I hope you are hungry."

The boy nearly laughed. "Yes, sir—very hungry."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together, "Splendid, splendid; the elves have quite outdone themselves in preparing breakfast for us. It must surely be this weather."

No one spoke for a moment then Draco and Camille shared a look, one that Dumbledore observed quietly while compassion brought him to grin knowingly.

"Well," he said, indicating the passageway with a sweep of an arm, "when you are ready…" then turned into the opening where his figure dissipated amongst its shadows.

With the one person to whisk him away having gone, Camille was left to endure an exchanging of goodbyes. He hated moments like this—_wait_, he thought, _I do_? The thought only reiterated his sense of loss and a somber temperament stole over him. Sobered, he was ready to meet the awkward goodbye. _Best to get it over with…I'm starving anyways_.

Both boys started into motion simultaneously, each going to turn to the other.

As he turned and extended a hand, Draco began, "I—"

As he turned, Camille was tripped up by the uncrossing of his feet and would have fallen flat on his face, had not Draco been in his path. He fell into Draco, his head landing upon the boy's chest, and felt his savior's hands grapple him by the shoulders to catch him fully. The brunette mumbled an apology and thanks, mortified as Draco set him up straight.

The two eyed each other for long moments, both their cheeks sweltering shades of rouge.

"Er—I'll, uh, see you later then?" Camille asked timorously. He looked at the nearest window peripherally and considered whether or not to throw himself out of it.

Draco blinked a few times and the bottom of his mouth moved; he was chewing the inside of his bottom lip. "Uh… yeah, sure…That would be fine."

"Uh… okay. Bye, then."

"Bye."

Camille did not wait, but spun about and walked swiftly into the shielding dark of the passageway, happy to be invisible. Soon, he was drifting upward on an enchanted spiral staircase then passing a lavish threshold, complete with a golden eagle as its knocker.

The Headmaster's office was comely and beset with countless shelves and bookcases whose contents spilled over their containers, long tables whose surfaces were littered with gilt candelabras that held waxing burgundy candles and stacks of musty parchment and tethered pyramids of frayed scrolls and all things of antiquity, and stand-alone oddities squatted here and there and in every corner. The back wall of the room was covered, mural-like, by the animated portraits of all of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts. There was an age-begotten scent, as there was with all old things and in old places, like the leaves of an ancient text, with a sprinkle of cinnamon and chicory that filled the room. Camille felt instantly at ease and soaked in the sensation. At his desk, near the center of the room, Dumbledore sat in an elaborate high-backed armchair and watched Camille enter. As the boy approached, he motioned at the lone sofa chair before his desk.

"Breakfast?"

"Yes, please."


End file.
